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A file cabinet had exploded in the back seat of the car. Manilla folders spilled their guts across the upholstery, staples and paperclips littered the floormats, and with every bump and turn along the road to the Cathedral, the car filled with the sounds of shifting paper. 

Penne was a fast reader, and despite the apparent chaos around her, she knew exactly what she was looking for. Bright, wide eyes scanned a page, doubled back for any compelling bits or bobs, then it was tossed aside into the passenger-sized pile of information beside, beneath, and at times fluttering down from above her. She hadn’t read all this on the way to the ceremony of course—the trip wasn’t quite that long—but there was time enough for a refresher, for a last-second check over the points of interest she’d put a pin in on their way down from Lorenzia. 

A bit fraying on the nerves, if she was being honest. Her fault though. Waited too long. Didn't socialize with the others. Too much moping in the early months; self-pity was rust on the joints and miserable to clean off. 

“[color=#951bff]Ex-military...[/color]” she mumbled, mostly to herself. She took a bite from her sandwich—another ball in the juggling act that was the back seat—finished the page, then flapped it at the front seat to get Alasdair’s attention. “[color=#951bff]Fire Scion dropped out of the military. Not discharged. Then disowned. Family trouble? Mm. Always family trouble.[/color]”

Then she tossed the paper aside and moved on. This had been her last week—and by extension, her Templar’s last week as well—a thorough high dive into whatever information she could gather about her new divine colleagues and their plus-ones. Most of it was public knowledge, but being public knowledge was not the same as being widely known. Most people didn’t bother digging into online records. Most people didn’t poke the genealogy sections of city libraries. Most people didn’t call old high schools, hospitals, employers, associates, and those who did certainly didn’t have the resources to pry past the awkward barriers one runs into when asking personal questions about other people. 

Of course she’d found nothing revealing. There was never anything explicit at this stage, at least nothing credible. But the was the job, the meat of it anyway; you're not supposed to get all the letters in hangman, you're supposed to figure it out partway. 

Not that she anticipated hanging anyone. The hope was always for frictionless working relationships, but it never hurt to keep some WD-40 in the glovebox.

She only got half a page into the Wind Scion’s folder before the car rolled to a stop, and they were enveloped by the sounds of paparazzi. Anxiety bubbled in Penne’s gut, which was becoming distressingly common for her. She had half a mind to stay put and finish reading, or at least finish her sandwich behind the comfort of the tinted windows. But tardiness was unbecoming of a Scion, probably, and she’d been given explicit instructions not to embarrass the family on this outing. 

So, utilizing a little trickery Alasdair had taught her, Penne dropped her sandwich into her shadow for later, pushed her paperwork to the far side of the seat, and got out. 

It was very bright and very crowded. Penne moved with haste, and between her cap, her shades, and the high collar of her coat, she was little more than a small, black smudge. That, combined with the fact that it seemed Ms. Desrosiers had arrived only just before her and had thus soaked up much of the cameras’ attentions, made her trip across the carpet less frantic than it could have been. Unfortunately, an intrepid reporter did manage to put himself just in the way enough as to make it unacceptable to ignore him. 

[i]“Your Holiness! Just a quick question! Your Holiness!”[/i] And when she stopped, he nodded his cameraman over to bring the lens entirely too close to her face. [i]“You seem to wear the same outfits every time you meet the public. Is this a style you’re bringing into the mainstream? Are you giving your support to a particular designer?”[/i]

Penne looked down at herself. Did she really wear the same thing all the time? That seemed possible. The coat, at least, came with her everywhere. It was like a smock that wrapped all the way around, soft inside and almost rubbery on the outside, but not the least bit smothering. She’d worn it all the time while she worked for the family. 

“[color=#951bff]It’s from a butchers’ supply store in Ornell. Hard to stain, easy to clean—it’s very convenient. I’ve only had to replace it once, but that was because it was stabbed, not because of any problem with the coat.[/color]” 

The interviewer nodded. Penne nodded. Moments passed without comment.

“[color=#951bff]Okay goodbye,[/color]” she said, then turned on her heel and hurried the rest of the way into the Cathedral to wait for Alasdair.